


The problem of being petit

by Tigresse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Clueless Sebastian Moran, Dark Comedy, Funny Jim Moriarty, Humor, Kidnapped John Watson, M/M, Mrs Hudson being wise, Mycroft wants a knighthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 12:57:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12912384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tigresse/pseuds/Tigresse
Summary: Jim Moriarty reads fanfiction about himself and his anger boils over to the people in his life when they too think and talk like fanfiction authors!





	The problem of being petit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whitewinehouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitewinehouse/gifts).



 

“Sherlock?”

 

“No it is Draco Malfoy. Yes of course it’s Sherlock. Now what is it, I am working.”

 

Sherlock was struggling to speak into the phone which was on speaker mode and was held by one of his captors. A few hours ago he had been taken in by the members of an infamous cult, Austria based and enormously dangerous, and was being interrogated, slow tortured and forced to convert to the same cult. Of course, he was objecting and not cooperating and obviously they had upped the ante and were going for an injection, one which would paralyze the detective’s mind and make him do whatever he was asked to do. Right at that moment, with the needle inches from his arm, Jim’s call had landed.

 

Sherlock Holmes was, for a change, thankful that James Moriarty was so feared by all. The moment his face and name had flashed on the screen of his phone the men that held him captive had allowed him to take the call, on a strict warning that he wouldn’t divulge his current situation to the formidable criminal mastermind.

 

“If you were to describe me to someone who doesn’t know me, what would you say?”

 

“Huh? What was that again?”

 

“Don’t act dumb, answer me now.”

 

“Jimmy, are you bored?”

 

“No, I am upset.”

 

“Gosh, what have you failed to blow up?”

 

“TELL ME HOW YOU’D ANSWER THEM OR YOU WILL BECOME A SPECIAL BRAND OF MEN’S BELTS, UNDERSTAND?”

 

Sherlock had to suppress a chuckle as the man holding the phone dropped it out of sheer nervousness. The others looked pale too, as if it wasn’t Moriarty on the phone but the man had landed there in person with grenades in both hands. “Sherlock, what was that, don’t tell me you dropped the fucking phone out of shock. Butterfingers! How would you describe me to someone…..”

 

“His name is Jim, he is clever and sharp, and dangerous too. He likes stars, he loves solving complex mathematical problems, he reads a lot and writes diabolical poetry. I’d also say you are cute, you like cuddles after sex and you gorge on candy and ice cream when you’re in a bad mood. Well, that’s about it…..no wait, if I were to describe you more from the physical side I’d say you have dark, soft hairs, dark deep eyes and a boyish pretty smile….you’re a pretty little thing…..”

 

“WHAT?”

 

“Yeah, what did I say wrong?”

 

“You called me little, a pretty little thing!” Moriarty’s manic voice and snarling tone made the phone-holding man step back and place the device on a table next to the chair where Sherlock sat, hands and legs bound. Clearly the man’s voice had enough authority and danger in it than the vibes of an entire army marching on a city, Sherlock noticed, and he smiled wickedly at his captors. “Yeah, I did say that Jimmy,” he spoke nonchalantly, observing the others in the room, “You are pretty. Okay maybe I can call you handsome instead of that, to make it sound manly.”

 

“Why little? Why is it so important to call me little? I could trace your whereabouts, come down there and cut off your cock.”

 

“Because you are little. That’s cute, you look like a little puppy that can bite someone’s head off but he’s still a puppy….wait, what, where are you all going?”

 

“Fuck you Sherlock,” Jim spat out and hung up.

 

“What just happened,” Sherlock looked at the now deserted room. His captors had run off. “Ah I see, the Moriarty fear,” Sherlock shrugged as he untied himself easily, now that there were no guns pointed at his head, “They thought he really was going to come down here. Works for me. He didn’t call a minute too late or hang up a minute too early. Serves me well. Works for me.”

 

***

 

“James I am waiting for an audience with the queen,” Mycroft hissed into the phone, “Can’t this wait?”

 

“No, it can’t,” Jim hissed back, “You answer me now or I will blow up Buckingham palace.”

 

Mycroft let out a huge sigh and got up, excusing himself for a few minutes. James Moriarty never made idle threats and he wasn’t going to take chances on a day like this, when Her Majesty had called him to discuss his Knighthood. An OBE could happen immediately, a CBE in six months but the elder Holmes aspired to be a Knight Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. These things needed effort and visibility beyond the normal line of work.

 

“Yes James, ask now,” he said impatiently.

 

“How do you describe me to others?”

 

“As the Napoleon of crime, as the Einstein of the modern world but with a dangerous side to him, as the man who gives my brother sex and makes him protect you from me, as a man I’d like to have befriended and worked with if he had trusted me, as a…..”

 

“Yaaaawwwnn, tell me about the physical aspects.”

 

“Oh God James.”

 

Jim made a growling sound and Mycroft got the picture. If this man could get Sherlock in his orbit and even strike up a friendship with Eurus, then he had to have some calibre. He wasn’t about to take him lightly. “All right, all right, don’t lose your temper now. Okay, so how do I describe you physically. Slim, malnourished by choice, dark hairs that smell of a citrus shampoo, normally clad in Westwood or Burberry, pale skin not pasty, thirty-five years but looks ten years younger if dressed in casuals, has a mole on his right collarbone and Colonel Moran tattooed on his tail bone. Yes, that would be all. Now, why did you ask me this James?”

 

“Is that all,” Jim sounded cheery, “Great.”

 

“Wait,” Mycroft added, “I’d also say you’re of short height…..”

 

Minutes later Mycroft entered the waiting room, dazed and astounded.

 

“What happened?” Lady Smallwood, who had accompanied him, asked him curiously.

 

“I just got abused and called names in six languages by Moriarty.”

 

“Well, what’s the surprise in that?”

 

“Funny, all I had said was he is short.”

 

***

 

John wriggled and squirmed but cooperated as he was taken to some undisclosed location, then into a house and made to sit on what felt like a couch. He was then handcuffed to something and the blindfold was taken off.

 

“Oh God, not again.”

 

John groaned with frustration when he realized, from the picture on the table next to him, that this was one of Moriarty’s abodes. The photograph was of Jim and Sebastian, John’s ex-military mate, sipping pinacoladas in some exotic beach and grinning at the camera. He looked at his right hand, which was cuffed to a chain that was latched on to a pillar. So, no escape for him unless he picked the lock or found a way to drag the pillar along. Frustrating and annoying.

 

“Heylo Jonny boi!”

 

The sing-song tone had a vicious instead of a playful edge to it. John’s heckles rose but he maintained a calm exterior. “Hello Moriarty.”

 

“Guess why you are here today?”

 

“Because when you have nothing better to do, you kidnap me. Last time it was to play chess and to teach you how to make Seb’s favourite cocktail. The one before last was a bet with Sherlock. What’s it this time? I am curious now.”

 

Jim tapped his chin as he walked around the room, studying John for a few moments before he would give his answer. The doctor waited, his slight smile not faltering, till he spotted the bodyguards at the doorway. “One of you there,” he said aloud, unbothered by Jim’s curious look at him, “I am unarmed, handcuffed and your boss knows I won’t hurt him because we share a common interest, Sherlock Holmes. Guarding me is like guarding a pug. Now be a darling and get me some tea and sandwiches, I was abducted when I was just about to have my lunch. I am hungry as a wolf.”

 

Jim nodded in the direction of his men and one went off to do the doctor’s bidding.

 

“Imagine Jonny boi, if someone had never seen me or known me, how would you have described my physical attributes to them?”

 

“I need to know where this is going James.”

 

“No, answer me now.”

 

“James, I might pretend otherwise, but I have no desire to be turned into shoes. Just tell me what you’re getting at or I would prefer to exercise my right to be silent.” He saw Jim frowning and looking at him menacingly but visions of a naked and embarrassed Jim caught having sex with Sherlock on the 221B kitchen table flooded his brain. His lips twitched but he suppressed his grin. The criminal mastermind suddenly looked more human and vulnerable and no longer so scary.

 

“Okay so I cut to the chase. Would you describe me as short?”

 

“Yes I would. Why?”

 

“You arse hole. You say that? How could you? I am 173 centimetres and you are 167 centimetres.”

 

“Yeah, so I am also short. What’s the big deal?”

 

“It doesn’t bother you when people call you that?” Jim was now looming over John, fingers and palm balled into fists.

 

John didn’t think this was going so well but reversing his answer would only serve to make Jim angrier. So he gulped, tried to offer a pacifying smile and said, “Listen James, we are both short. It’s the truth we must live with. At least you can’t be called a hobbit or something. They will, at worst, call you an elf…..!”

 

Jim made an animal noise and John flinched. The moment was interrupted by a servant entering with some juice, tea and sandwiches. In an attempt to distract the criminal John pointed cheerfully at the tray and said, “Ah, my food is here. Can I have it?”

 

“Sure,” Jim said, wicked smile on, as he picked up the juice and tossed it over a startled John’s head, “Drink up doctor.”

 

***

 

Sebastian Moran was waiting on a treetop with his sniper rifle, muttering all sorts of obscenities about his boss/lover, who had sent him for this rather unique and weird hit. Instead of a rooftop or a balcony or some obscure room, he was on a tree. A Tree! The targets, which were usually men and women walking down a road or alley or in a room with large French windows, were also different this time. He had been asked to shoot pellets, rubber pellets, at two bratty teenagers. That in itself had offended Seb and he had asked ‘Shouldn’t I just kill them instead’. Shooting rubber pellets? Colonel Moran shooting rubber pellets at two teens! Disgraceful.

 

But Jim had mentioned he didn’t want deaths this time, only painful injuries, so he was only doing his duty.

 

“God damn it,” he slapped his own neck when a worm crawled over it, “Owwww.” He had tossed the worm off but the imprint of his own fingers was evident on his skin and it stung like a bitch. ‘Great, now I even succeeded in slapping myself’, Sebastian muttered some more obscenities after that and waited, corners of his mouth downturned in displeasure. He could have been reading a book, swigging a beer and watching telly, or just cuddling Jim instead of sitting on a branch like a chimpanzee with a gun. If Jim wanted to scare children then why couldn’t he choose one of the many beginners they had in their gang, men who aspired to be Sebastian Moran one day. Why choose the great Moran?

 

His sharp instincts caught a certain movement to the side and in a flash he was on the other branch, grabbing the offender by the neck.

 

Several things happened at once.

 

The offender turned out to be Jim Moriarty wearing a huge cloak of leaves strung together, over his Westwood suit.

 

The branch he was on wasn’t sturdy enough for two of them so it broke with a great crack.

 

Sebastian saw two rowdy teenaged boys walking down the path.

 

He reached out with his long arm and grabbed a bigger branch while wrapping his other arm around Jim and keeping him close. He managed to keep them both from plummeting down twenty feet but the broken branch crashed downwards and fell right in front of the two boys. Scared out of their minds, they yelped, tripped, fell and then ran off as if hounds were on their tail.

 

Sebastian slowly hauled himself up on a branch and dragged Jim up as well.

 

“What the hell is all this huh, what is going on, we could have broken our necks,” he said angrily, taking his liberties with the man he loved, worked for, and had first rights on. Nobody except for him was allowed to talk to Jim like this and Seb had to admit that when he scolded or ordered Jim about, he felt like a demi-God of sorts. The feared criminal mastermind, cowering in his arms and looking all peeved, that was some sight to watch! “You are wearing leaves, proper leaves,” Sebastian tore the shrug away from his boss and tossed it to the ground, “What the hell happened to ‘I won’t ruin my Westwood’ ever?”

 

“You missed them,” Jim grumbled.

 

“Yeah. Wait, why was it so important to shoot rubber pellets at those boys? And so, so, so important that you had to disguise yourself and wait here to check if I was doing the job right. I have been doing this for you for years, did you not have the confidence in me to get the job done? Real bullet or rubber pellet, a job is a job and I would have completed it had you not showed up just to see if I was taking things seriously or not.”

 

“That’s not the reason,” Jim snarled back this time, “I wanted to watch them get hurt.”

 

“What have they done? You’ve had me take down presidents and never felt the need to watch the whole thing.”

 

“They called me ‘tiny man’.”

 

Sebastian suppressed a chuckle and said, “Well, that was an offensive thing to say. They were idiots. You are hardly tiny.”

 

Jim put his arms around Sebastian, “I am not? Oh God Sebby, I love you so much. You are the only one who understands and appreciates me properly.”

 

“You are definitely not tiny,” Sebastian kissed his cheek as they started to climb down the tree, “On the shorter side yes, but not…..whaaaa…..Jiiiiiiiimmmm!”

 

Jim looked down at Sebastian, ten feet beneath him, and sneered, “Short? You called me fucking short? You lanky bastard.”

 

***

 

“Oh it’s nothing, thanks for inviting me over because Jim is being a serious arse at home now,” Sebastian limped over to sit on the couch, putting his sprained leg on the coffee table, “Just a cut to the elbow, a bit of bruising on the shoulder and the sprain. It could have been worse had he pushed me off from the higher branch we were perched on.”

 

“What is wrong with him?” John asked, “He even called Mycroft and abused the hell out of him when Mycroft called him short. He kidnapped me and tossed juice over my head. He got upset with Sherlock. He pushed you off a tree. Is he seriously losing it?”

 

“I think I get it,” Sherlock said with his usual air of wisdom, ignoring Mrs Hudson who had just come in with a tray of tea, cookies, sandwiches and crisps, “He is suffering from some form of acute stress and anxiety disorder due to work reasons. Maybe some Hong Kong based mafia don is giving him grief or some female agent suddenly got caught by the Mexican government. Or it could be brief psychotic disorder due to abandonment issues, which might go back to his childhood days…..”

 

“Oh Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson pitched in, much to the detective’s disapproval, “Why do you insist on complicating things? You see, Jim and I had a chat last week when he had come over to plant a bag of roaches in your room to scare the hell out of you. I managed to persuade him not to do this but he told me that was because you called him short. From what I understand, all of you called him short and he got upset thereafter. Don’t you know Jim reads fan fiction about himself and is hugely grieved that despite all his fantastic qualities and impressive resume, all fanfiction authors make it a point to call him ‘short’.”

 

“Shit,” Sherlock smacked his fist on his own knee, “I should have seen that.”

 

“I had no idea he was so sore about his height,” John murmured, “I’ll be careful.”

 

“Now boys,” Mrs. Hudson said, “Don’t be cheesy or devious. He will sniff it from a mile away, okay?”

 

Sebastian snorted, “You bet Mrs Hudson! I think we’ll send him a text and apologize. What say guys?”

 

“Just put my brother’s name in there as well,” Sherlock reminded Sebastian, “And make it sound poetic or something, he’s a sucker for poems.”

 

***

 

Jim smiled when he saw the text.

 

_What’s the point in being so tall_

_When your head remains in the clouds_

_It’s better to be compact and small_

_And have talents to make you proud_

_You may not be lanky but you’re closer to hell_

_You are mankind’s most dangerous alarm bell_

_We adore you for what you are_

_Look at the obvious advantages_

_Whether you look from near or far_

_Best things come in small packages_

 

_~~Signed~~_

Sherlock, Sebastian, John and Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> Redwinehouse and I had a chat some time ago and she pointed out that all of us make it a point to call Jim Moriarty short. This fic is a gift to her for completing her wonderful work Orb Weaver. Please do read it if you haven't already!


End file.
